


Troublemaker

by LazyBaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Guidance Counselors, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Play, counselor Steve Harrington, older Steve Harrington, student Billy Hargrove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: There are troublemakers and then there’s Billy Hargrove.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 34
Kudos: 235





	Troublemaker

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT:** please read the tags!

Steve spent his summers during his teens working as a camp counselor and liked the job enough to keep doing it. Snagged a spot at his old school as the _first_ official counselor of Hawkins High. Better than slinging ice cream at Scoops Ahoy for six-bucks an hour and at least as a counselor he was making a _positive impact_. He’s _helping_ kids. He’s making an actual, real life, _difference_.

When he’d been a student at Hawkins High, he would have killed for someone to open up to without the drama of being called a _homo_ for lingering on Ricky Shannon’s abs and being confused or _weird_ for missing his parents and not _appreciating_ his empty house _perfect for any-day-of-the-week parties_ the way any kid in his position _should._

Girlfriends never stuck around long enough for him to get comfortable and his _old buddy since diaper rash days_ friend Tommy Hagan’s never been the _type_ to get _ooey-gooey_ with emotions. He’ll hold Steve’s legs up for a keg stand, but he’s not gonna sit down and listen when Steve’s having _issues_ during their weekly meet up at Moore’s bar. That’s _drinking_ and _reliving the good old days_ time, too sacred for _moping_.

Steve has years of experience as a counselor under his belt. Stays up-to-date on all the techniques that might help get these kids to open up and then to actually _help them_ when they do. He’s good at his job. He’s the Robert Plant of being a support system for students who don’t have one. He’s tenured in this shit and this is the _first goddamn time_ he’s rammed headfirst into a brick wall where no matter what he pulls out from his trusty _psych approved methods_ nothing seems to make a dent and he’s starting to get a concussion.

There are troublemakers and then there’s Billy Hargrove.

A straight A student who transferred over from California and in only one month has proven everything in _the thickest file Steve has ever seen any student have in his entire career as a counselor_ actually accurate.

Behavioral issues. Assaults against fellow students and teachers. Truancy. Drugs. Expelled from St. Michael’s after setting fire to their Virgin Mary.

And all of it swept under the big fat bureaucratic rug thanks to his perfect test scores.

Billy sits on Steve’s office couch. A cheap two-seater he bought with his own money from Ikea and assembled the night before the term started a few years back. Billy’s boots are kicked up onto the small coffee table, he’s wearing his usual smug smirk. Bottom lip split open. Swollen. Blood staining the front of his white shirt.

He’d sent _another_ student to the nurse’s office during his lunch period for _looking at me the wrong way._ Two in one week. Steve knows that’s not a record for him. The kid he’d _beaten_ has a broken nose and wouldn’t say _who_ had hit him.

Billy’s one of the bigger kids. Muscles ripple under his clothes without him moving. Steve’s read the same scenarios in his file over and over—big and strong with a temper that proves just how easy it is to provoke this kid from the west coast into breaking bone.

Billy thumbs at his lip, licks at it. Can’t stop prodding at it with his tongue. Talks.

Never about himself. He dances around the one subject Steve wants to hear and spits out shit that forces Steve to mentally roll his eyes so hard he’s developed a _twitch._

Billy gabs about the sluts he fucked back in California and how Indiana just _can’t_ compare.

“Vicky’s a shitty lay. Small tits and gives the worst head. God, Hawkins chicks can’t even choke on dick right.” Billy says to him, grin sharp and full of it, acting annoyed and delighted to talk like this to _Steve_ , the adult, the counselor, the man who he wants to push off a cliff. He’s hard and obvious by how tight his jeans are and Steve thinks _that’s the point_ Billy’s aiming for.

How far can you push someone before they _have_ to push back.

Steve’s the perfect target for this kid and they both know it.

Billy grabs himself, rubs at the thick line of his erection with his eyes locked on Steve, wicked tongue poking out. Upping the ante from their last session to wring any reaction out of Steve. Wants to piss him off. Get Steve to ring the bell, declare this attempt at helping _bullshit_ and call it quits like everyone else who’s come into Billy’s poisonous atmosphere has done before burning up on impact.

Steve sits across from him, legs crossed, arms crossed, unimpressed, and out of ideas and pissed off about it.

The student who’d been sent to the nurse’s office had been terrified. Had tears and snot mixed in with all the blood.

Run or be eaten. Billy isn’t the type to leave bones.

Steve’s not about to _flee_.

“Take it out.” Steve tells him. White noise in his ears, plugging up his hearing so the insanity can’t mix with any rational thought trying to sneak in and reason with him. Catches and understands that glimpse of _shock_ flittering across Billy’s face. Billy hadn’t expected it. Getting called out like this.

Steve says it again. Gestures with his hand. _Means_ it this time, hope spurring him on. There’s always _hope_ even this far into the shit.

“Whip it out. You want to show me, so? Show me.”

Billy cocks his head. Grin going lopsided as the wheels spin under his golden curls. Thinking it over, weighing his options and Steve has to wonder how many people he’s done this to or if Steve’s just _that_ special and the only one to have stuck around for the big reveal.

Billy uncrosses his ankles, drops his feet to the floor, leaves dirt on the table, his boots landing on the hardwood with a loud _THUD_ that rattles Steve, though he keeps himself in check. He’s not about to give Billy the satisfaction of seeing him stumble.

The tension worsens between them. Steve feels if he breathes too loud Billy will do something he _can_ walk back from, but Steve won’t be able to help him afterwards. They’re on a tightrope and Steve’s determined to get them both to the other side alive.

“Didn’t know you were a kiddie fucker, _Mr. H._ But, hey,” Billy squeezes himself one more time, “I ain’t gonna judge.”

Billy undoes his belt, unzips his fly all the while keeping eye contact with Steve and Steve refuses to waver under those laughing blue eyes, disbelief mocking him. _Kiddie fucker_. Steve recoils inside, but doesn’t run. He’s not gonna.

Billy’s a danger to the public. A metalhead _bad boy_ who stinks like cigarettes and a rotten attitude Steve can’t predict and muscles to back up the aggression he’s been riding high on since grade school and he’s Steve’s responsibility to figure out and straighten out and get in line.

Mandatory sessions twice a week after school thanks to the principal who’s more interested in the high scores Billy brings with him than the kid with a bad home life and dealing with trauma the only way he knows how. It’s not about _fixing_. It’s about _curtailing the damage for as long as you can, Mr. Harrington._ The tornado’s come to town and it’s time to board up the windows and pretend it’s a beautiful sunny day while houses are shredded.

Steve’s tried the direct approach. Presenting himself as a friend. An ear to listen to whatever _angst_ has Billy acting out like this. He’s gone the tough love route. The _strictly professional_ routine. Steve’s tried _every_ strategy and game plan he’s got and perfected and Billy’s dug his heels in and rebuffed them all, stood his ground unaffected and called Steve _a loser bitch who hit his peak in high school_ with precision that dug under Steve’s ribs and _hurt_.

Billy hisses, grips the base of his dick and strokes himself and that’s _not_ what they’re doing.

“Sit on your hands.” Steve says, leaving no room for Billy’s cockiness.

Billy pauses, one eyebrow hiked up into his blond curls. He’s _smart_. On paper he’s _the_ smartest kid in the entire school.

He’s dangerous and gonna get himself killed one day if no one steps in.

Billy bobs his head, sways. He laughs sharply then sits on his hands. Slumps low on the couch and spreads his legs wide with his dick red against his shirt.

“Now what?” He says, eyes bright.

Steve stands up, circles the coffee table and sits on it, right in front of Billy, knees framing his and Steve pointedly, slowly, lowers his eyes and looks at Billy’s erection—a flushed pink, _pretty_ , thick and uncut, the head already pushing the foreskin back, sitting curved slightly to the right against Billy’s flat stomach. He shaves his public hair. Steve smells the musky salt coming off of him. Can tell this is another _little surprise_ that’s caught Billy off guard and unprepared, his stomach twitching under his pulled taut t-shirt, how tense he is, his thighs massive and holding himself steady. He’s trying to play it cool. Not about to be the first to crack.

Steve looks to Billy’s face. Thick dark eyebrows knit together and the longer Steve says nothing and the more Steve simply sits and _looks_ —the more Billy’s humor slips away. The anger darkens his features, reddens his cheeks, has his cock dribbling pre-come down its twitching length, leaving a wet spot on his shirt and then his jeans.

Billy glares at Steve. Challenging him to _say something_. Do _anything_.

The silence drags and Billy stays sitting on his hands and Steve _waits._

The clock on the wall above the door ticks loud. Outside he can hear students passing by in the hall. The blinds are pulled. The door’s unlocked.

The seconds _tick_.

Then the minutes.

Then—

“You do this with all the kids you see, Harrington?” Billy snarls, spit flying out of his mouth and hitting Steve on the cheek.

“I know Vicky.” Steve says calmly, side-steps the bait, lets the spit sit and cool on his skin. “I see her every week and she tells me all sorts of things and the one thing I _can_ say, is she would never let you within an inch of her, _Billy_.” Steve leans forward. Just slightly, just enough to see Billy’s eyes dilate even more, his muscles _creaking_ under the strain. “So really, why are you lying? Are you trying to impress me? Is this for me?”

Steve glances down at Billy’s still very hard and leaking erection.

 _That_ gets Billy’s hands up, curled into fists, ready to argue, to fight and get himself back on higher ground where he can pummel Steve properly, except Steve is _calm_ and has been on this side with Billy too many times and for the very first time in _weeks_ he’s hit an actual nerve.

“I told you to sit on your hands.” Steve says in the same voice his dad would have used on him when Steve needed to be told twice. “ _Sit_.”

Billy’s fists shake in the air, aching to punch him and grab back whatever dignity he thinks he’s lost. He drops back onto the couch, shoving his hands under him, teeth grinding so loud Steve can hear his molars cracking.

“Good.” Steve’s voice dips, goes soft. “Just—sit.”

This time Steve waits for Billy’s temper to settle, for the redness in his cheeks and the veins popping in his forehead to simmer instead of boil. He looks at this _boy_ —tense and full of the kind of rage that discolors and mars a handsome face, turns him into someone he doesn’t have to be.

Billy squirms. He turns his head away from Steve for a second in a huff then he’s glaring every imaginable pain he can think of back at him, eyes shining, glassy. Panting shallow breaths that shake his chest. His cock dribbles thick down onto the couch. Steve will have to clean it before the janitors come by, spray some air freshener too.

“Why’d you lie?” Steve asks only once he knows Billy’s gotten some control of himself.

Billy says nothing.

It would be too easy if he did.

“You skip out on classes, you don’t do your homework, you pick fights every day—what do you think that means?” Steve isn’t _really_ asking and he _knows_ he won’t get an answer even if he was. “Do you think your actions make you a good boy or a bad one?”

Billy’s face twists. He looks away. Digs his canine into his split lip and licks at the new blood, tongues at the cut.

That’s not what they’re doing either.

“Answer me.” Steve leans on his elbows and puts his head in the lion’s mouth.

“Like you know shit.” Billy struggles to say through clenched teeth.

The kid’s on the road to becoming a burnout or being thrown in prison the day he hits eighteen. Or worse.

Steve gently places his hand on Billy’s knee.

Billy makes a noise. High pitched and hurt. Swallows loud. Dick spurting a heavy, rope-thick leak across his shirt and down his denim covered thigh, twitching on his quivering, nervous stomach, the teeth of his zipper biting into the thin flushed skin of his cock.

“Are you being a good boy or a bad boy, Billy?” Steve says one last time, quiet and calm with a heart full of love and care for any kid that needs it and _boy_ does Billy Hargrove need it. Tough love. The kind that’ll wiggle under his self-calloused skin and _stick_ no matter how hard he fights it.

“Bad.” Billy admits shakily with glowing red cheeks and glossy, furious eyes turned towards the wall, away from Steve.

A metalhead menace out to destroy the world and himself with it.

Steve _hates_ this kid.

Thank god he’s a senior.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [He doesn't need to see it firsthand to know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26209303) by [thursdayknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdayknight/pseuds/thursdayknight)




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